Marcella Erisford has arrived, accompanied by her father, who returns

to Soissons to-morrow. He has been residing there eleven months, in

order to settle some business, relative to a legacy left him by an

intimate friend; in the spring he expects to re-embark for

Philadelphia, his native city. He resembles his sister, Mrs. Danville,

and appears equally amiable and desirous of contributing to the

happiness of those around him. We shall sincerely regret his

departure. Marcella is quite a beauty, with her glowing cheeks, hazel

eyes and pearly teeth, although her features are by no means regular.

She is less lively than Leonora, but just as intelligent and

accomplished; so you see I have two delightful companions to console

me (if it were _possible_) for your absence. Our brother Edgar is, I

think, desperately smitten with Marcella; certes, when she is by, he

has neither eyes or ears for any body or anything else.

Now for our peregrinations. The weather being remarkably fine on

Tuesday, and the carriages at the door by nine o'clock, according to

order, we proceeded to Montmorency and the Abbey of St. Denis. Oh, how

your pensive spirit will luxuriate in wandering through the solemn

aisles and caverns of this "hoary pile," among the sepulchres of its

mighty dead! You are aware that during the revolution, this asylum of

deceased royalty, was invaded by a barbarous populace, who dragged the

corpses from their graves, loaded them with indignities, and cast them

into ditches and other places of filth. It is related that the corpse

of the brave Louis XIV, when thus profaned, raised its arm, as if to

strike the miscreant who dared the deed, while that of the good Henri

Quatre (which was found uninjured by time) smiled benignantly on his

ungrateful subjects! The tombs have since been restored by Napoleon,

who intended for himself and his descendants the vault which is

appropriated to the Bourbons. It is secured by two massive bronze

gates, which he had made to close upon his own ashes, that now repose

under a simple stone on the barren island of St. Helena! So changes

the glory of this world and its mighty ones! The Abbey of Saint Denis

was originally a plain chapel, erected by a pious and wealthy lady

named Catulla, to shelter the remains of that martyr (St. Denis) and

his companions, after their execution. The generosity and care of

various monarchs, have transformed the humble chapel into the present

majestic cathedral. The relics of St. Denis are enclosed in a splendid

shrine, the gift of Louis XVIII; and the sumptuous altar in front of

this, with its enormous gold candlesticks, was given to the church by

Bonaparte, after his marriage with the Empress Marie Louise, on which

occasion it was first erected in the Louvre, where the ceremony was

performed. In the side aisles of St. Denis, are several superb

monuments, in memory of Francis I, Henry II, and Henry III, and their

queens. The antique sepulchres of Dagobert, and his spouse Nantilde,

are near the door, and that of Dagobert most curiously carved. In one

of the vaults we saw the stone coffin of King Pepin; it is open and

empty, and when struck upon the side, sounds like metal. Near the

mausoleum of Francis I, stands the mimic bier of Louis XVIII, canopied

and richly decorated with funereal ornaments. It will remain until

succeeded by that of Charles X, for such is the custom of France. What

gave rise to it I know not; but we may reasonably suppose that it was

intended, like the monitor of Philip of Macedon, to remind the

reigning monarch of his mortality.

At Montmorency we had fine sport riding about on donkeys to the

different points of view that merit notice for their beauty. The

little animal upon which Mr. Erisford rode, was at first extremely

refractory, and the trouble he had to force it along excited our

mirth; then my saddle girth broke, and this was another source of

merriment. After riding over the valley, we alighted at the hunting

seat of the unhappy father of the murdered Duke d'Enghien, the present

prince of Condé, who is said to be yet overwhelmed with affliction at

the untimely and cruel end of his noble son. The place is called the

"Rendezvous;" it is shady and pleasant--the house a plain stone

building: we did not enter it, but partook of some cool milk beneath

the trees, in front of the door. We purchased it of the game keeper

and his wife, who reside there. Retracing our path, (and the little

donkeys, I assure you, trotted _back_ much faster than they _went_,)

we stopped at the Hermitage. This is the most interesting object to be

seen at Montmorency, and indeed the chief attraction to that

spot--although circumstances induced us to defer our visit to it till

the last. It is a quarter of a mile from the village, and was the

residence of Jean Jacques Rousseau, and afterwards of Andrew Gretry,

the musical composer, {537} whose family still occupy it. They are so

obliging as to allow strangers to visit this rural retreat of those

celebrated men, and have arranged in a small apartment, various

articles that were owned and used by them, and that are consequently

interesting to the spectator; for instance, the bedstead and table of

Rousseau; the cup and saucer of Gretry; his comb and spectacles, and

the antique little spinet upon which he tried his compositions. A

flower garden adjoins the mansion, and there we saw a rose bush that

was planted by Jean Jacques, and the stone bench upon which he used to

sit while writing his "Héloise." From the bay tree that shades it, I

procured a leaf for your herbarium. A rivulet meanders through the

garden, and empties into a small lake, near which is the bust of

Gretry, supported by a column, with an inscription in gilt letters.

Rousseau's bust occupies a niche in the wall, and is covered with a

glass to protect it from the pencils of scribblers, which have

disfigured it considerably. Bidding adieu to the Hermitage, we

returned to the "White Horse," an excellent inn we had selected in the

town, and having recruited ourselves with a hearty dinner, resumed our

seats upon the donkeys, and repaired to the village of d'Enghien, (a

mile distant,) to see its neat and commodious sulphur baths, and the

pretty lake of St. Gratien, on the border of which it stands. In the

centre of the water is a restaurant, to which, if you choose, you are

conveyed in a boat; but it was so late, that our parents would not

consent to make this aquatic excursion, and we therefore returned to

Montmorency, and thence to Paris. A bright moon lighted us home, where

we arrived about eleven o'clock, pleased with our day's adventures,

and so sleepy we could scarcely reach our chambers without falling

into a slumber on the way. On Sunday Mr. Dorval brought us six tickets

of admission to the Chapel of the Tuileries, where high mass is

performed every Sabbath while the king is in the city. Not a moment

was to be lost, so we hastened to array ourselves for the occasion, as

full dress is required if you sit in the gallery with the royal

family, and our billets were such as to admit us there. Marcella,

Leonora and myself had just purchased new bonnets, and these we wore.

Their's are of straw colored crape, ornamented with blond and bunches

of lilacs, and are very becoming; mine is of pink, and decorated with

blond and white hyacynths. Our party, consisting of Mamma, Papa,

Edgar, and our three ladyships, was soon ready and at the palace. The

chapel was crowded, but we found no difficulty in obtaining seats--for

on presenting our tickets, the captain of the guards handed us to

them, and the throng yielded to him without hesitation. The music was

very fine, and we had a close view of the Bourbons and their suite.

They were sumptuously clad, and the King and Duke and Duchess of

Angoulême seemed very devout. The Duchess has a most melancholy

expression of countenance, owing perhaps to the sad vicissitudes of

her youth. Neither she, her spouse or uncle are popular. The Duchess

de Berri is exceedingly so, and is considered one of the most

charitable ladies in the kingdom. She is extremely fair, has light

hair and a pleasing face. She is not sufficiently dignified, I think,

and is a terrible fidget; during service she was continually adjusting

her tucker, necklace, or sleeve. It is reported, that when the

omnibuses, or circulating carriages of the boulevards were first

introduced, she made a bet with the king that she would ride in one of

them, and actually did so, in disguise! I am summoned to the parlor to

receive visiters--so kiss my hand to you.

LEONTINE.

P. S. Our guests proved to be General and Mr. George Washington

Lafayette. They came to take leave of us ere their departure for La

Grange. The Chamber of Deputies having dissolved, they go to the

country to-morrow, where the rest of the family have already

established themselves. We have been so pressingly invited to pay them

a visit, that we have determined to do so, and anticipate great

pleasure and gratification from spending a day or two in the midst of

this charming and highly respected family. Again adieu.

L.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY DAUGHTER'S LULLABY.

Tune--"The Sunset Tree."

Come! Come! Come!

Come to thy Mother's breast!

The day begins to close:

And the bright, but fading west

Invites thee to repose.

The frolic and the fun

Of thy childish sports are o'er:

But, with to-morrow's sun,

To be renewed once more.

Come! Come! Come!

Come to thy Mother's breast!

The day begins to close:

And the bright, but fading west

Invites thee to repose.

Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!

Sweet on thy Mother's knee!

To con thine evening prayer,

To him who watches thee

With a Father's tender care.

For parents and for friends

Then breathe thy simple vow;

And when life's evening ends,

Be innocent as now.

Come! Come! Come!

Come to thy Mother's breast!

The day begins to close:

And the darkening of the west

Invites thee to repose.

Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!

Sleep till the morning beams!

My song is in thine ear,

To mingle with thy dreams,

And to tell thee I am near.

Bright be thy dreams, my child!

Bright as thy waking eyes,

As the morning beaming mild,

Or the hope that never dies.

Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!

Sleep on thy Mother's breast!

Thine eyes begin to close;

And she that loves thee best

Has lulled thee to repose.

{538}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Troy, June, 1835_.

MR. WHITE,--The very polite invitation received in yours of February

11th, (the more valuable because it in part originates with Mr. R.) to

contribute to your well conducted, entertaining and instructive

periodical, would have been sooner answered, but that I was desirous

to write something specially intended for the Messenger. But owing to

my having a work (Universal History in Perspective) now in the press,

the manuscript of which is not yet quite finished, I am obliged to

devote every leisure moment in that direction. Unwilling, however, not

to respond to the Virginian politeness which dictated your letter, I

have sent you, from my port-folio, some little poems which have not

been published.

The Messenger, as I have learned from some of our gentlemen who

frequent the reading room, is highly spoken of here. Accept my

grateful acknowledgment of your favor, in sending it to me.

Respectfully, yours,

EMMA WILLARD.

OCEAN HYMN.

Written on board the Sully, on a return voyage from France, July,

1831.

Rock'd in the cradle of the deep,

Father, protect me while I sleep;

Secure I rest upon the wave,

For thou my God hast power to save.

I know thou wilt not slight my call,

For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall,

And calm and peaceful is my sleep,

Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.

And such the trust that still were mine,

Tho' stormy winds swept o'er the brine;

Or tho' the tempest's fiery breath

Rous'd me from sleep to wreck and death,

In ocean-cave, still safe with thee,

The germ of immortality,

And sweet and peaceful is my sleep,

Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.

* * * * *

The following was written soon after the intelligence of Lafayette's

death reached this country. At the public examination of the young

ladies under my charge, they appeared in mourning, on the last day,

August 5th, on account of the death of our country's father, and also

on that of the death of two of their former school companions. At the

close of the school exercises, the little poem in blank verse, was

read by one of their number, and the dirge, with a plaintive

accompaniment on the harp and piano, was sung. It may be thought

strange that I should venture to produce this, when the performances

of such eminent men as Messrs. Everett and Adams are before the

public.[1] But the incidents of the life of Lafayette are so well

known, that it appears to me only necessary to give to memory the

key-note and excite her to use her own powers; and to this end a

poetic diction gives to the writer some advantages, as it admits of

greater condensation of narrative, of thought, and feeling.

[Footnote 1: This was prepared for the Messenger before the number was

received containing the critique on those publications.]

LAFAYETTE.

On Seine's fair banks, amidst Parisian towers,

Gather a multitude! Slowly they come,

And mournfully. The very children weep;

And the stern soldier hath his sun-burnt face

Wet with unwonted tears. And see! From forth

The portals of a venerable church,

The mourners following, and the pall upborne

By white-haired ancients of the sorrowing land,

A coffin issues. Needless task, to tell

Whose pallid lineaments--whose clay-cold form

They bear to his long rest. France hath but ONE

So loved, so honored; nay, the world itself

Hath not another.

Who shall fill his place?

Who now, when suffering justice pleads, will hear?

And when humanity with fettered hands

Uplifted cries, who now will nerve the arm?

Who break the silken bands of pleasure, spurn

Ancestral pride, the pomp of courts, and sweet

Domestic love, and bare his bosom in

The generous strife?

Let us recall his acts

And teach them to our sons. Perchance the spark

Extinct, rekindling in some youthful heart,

The hero's spirit, will return to bless.

Who treads Columbia's soil, but knows his blood

Hath mingled with it, freely shed for us.

For injur'd France, impoverish'd and oppress'd,

In freedom's sacred cause, he next stood forth,

And despotism closed her long career.

But wild misrule uprose; and murder's arm

Was bared to strike. Lafayette interposed;--

Chief of a distant armed host, he wrote

And bade the legislative band beware!

Then Jacobinic tigers growled, muttering

A Cæsar! Slay him! At an army's head

He dictates to the Senate! Hush! he comes--

Alone, unarmed, save with the sword of truth,

And beards the monsters in their very den.

They quail, and freedom's sons arouse.

Then thou, poor sufferer, Louis had not died,

Nor hapless Antoinette, thy beauteous neck

Had never fed the greedy guillotine,

Nor yet had Olmutz' dreary dungeon held

That noble man, had ye but trusted him.

O'er the broad page of history, there comes

A meteor glare. Napoleon rises!

Other lights grow dim, or fade away;

But plagues are scattered from the burning trail--

Lafayette's star, tho' hid, moves on unquenched;

O'er fair La Grange it shines with beauteous ray,

And fosters in its beams domestic joy.

The comet sinks beneath Helena's rocks;

The star remains, undimmed, a guide to France.

But hath Columbia no gratitude?

She woos her brave deliverer to her arms!

Again he rides the wave; not now, as once,

The banner'd eagle droops the pensive wing,

But proudly fluttering, o'er his favorite's head

Bears high the starry crest.

He comes! resounds

Along Manhattan's strand and o'er her waves;

The city is unpeopled, thronged the shore,

Gay pennons wave, and cannon roar; men shout, {539}

Children leap up, and aged veterans weep.

Even here he came; within these walls we saw

His face benign, and heard his kindly voice;

And here we blessed him in our artless song,

And raised our tearful eyes, and called him "father;"

And with a father's love he looked on us

And wept. And now HE sleeps in death, 'tis meet

That we should mourn. Would we could seek his grave,

With those the sorrowing ones, he loved the best,

There too would we, the mourning flowers of France,

And drooping willows plant, and kneel and weep.

Take comfort ye his offspring! God's own word

Is pledged to you; seed of a righteous man!

Lift up your downcast hearts, and joy for this,

That he hath died unchanged, as long he lived.

And tho' the perils of his age, outwent

The dangers of his youth, yet he hath stood,

And calm and fearless, tower'd above the storms

That scared the timid and o'erwhelmed the vile.

His fame shall be a light to future times;

But it shall fall in glance portentous,

On tyrants and their leagues; on the oppressed,

In gentle rays of pity and of hope,--

On dark hypocrisy, that hymns the name

Of liberty, to cheat for power, it falls,

Revealing guilt and shame. Meanwhile it shows

The good even as they are, not to be bought

No sold, nor daunted. Such a man was he,

Your father and your friend; nor yours alone;

Whoever bears man's image, he hath lost

A countryman, a father, and a friend!

Thus human nature mourns, and sympathy,

Wide as his generous heart, shall sooth your grief.

DIRGE,

Commemorative of the deaths Gen. Lafayette--of Miss Mary A. Coley, and

Miss Helen Stuart Bowers.[2]

Sweep--slowly sweep the chords to notes of woe,

Breathe dirge-like sounds, funereal and low;

For sorrow flows--a strange and mingled tide,

The Beautiful are gone--the Brave hath died!

So good, so dauntless, generous, and kind,

Our Country's Father leaves no peer behind;

But ah our Sisters! must the bright and gay,

Leave the fair earth, and moulder in the clay!

Thus saith the Word, "Be not of little faith;"

Prepare for life,--prepare for early death;

So shall ye calmly part, or peaceful stay,

Be honor'd here, or sweetly pass away.

Sweep--slowly sweep the chords to notes of woe,

Breathe dirge-like sounds, funereal and low,

For sorrow still, will flow in mingled tide,

The BEAUTIFUL are gone--the BRAVE hath died!

[Footnote 2: Miss Bowers (who was a young lady of exquisite personal

beauty) had a remarkably peaceful and happy death.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE OLD PARISH CHURCH.

MR. WHITE,--The attention of the traveller through Lower Virginia, is

often powerfully arrested by the fine old churches in a state of

dilapidation and decay, and he reverts with a melancholy feeling to

the days when they were built, and the people who worshipped within

them. During our last war with Great Britain, these churches served as

quarters for our soldiery, and sometimes as stables for the horses of

our cavalry.

NUGATOR.

Yon ruined church! how it dimly stands

With its windows sunk and broken--

Of the parent scoff'd at the children's hands,

'Tis a sad and a guilty token.

Thou'rt a noble work and a lofty pile!

With thy spacious, vaulted ceiling;

These massy pillars, and long deep aisle,

Touch the heart with a holy feeling.

'Twas a proud, proud day, when our fathers laid

This stone of the mould'ring corner;

Ah! they did not dream 'twould so soon be made

A jest for the passing scorner.

Cold, cold in death are the hearts which throbb'd

To view thy rising glory--

Are we their sons, who have basely robb'd

What Time had left so hoary?

Long years have pass'd, now silent fane!

Since you rang with the solemn warning,

And years may pass, but for thee, in vain

The return of the Sabbath morning.

Ye slumbering dead! what a change is here,

Where once ye worshipp'd--kneeling--

No sound is heard but my hollow steps, near

Where the full tones once were pealing.

Lo! the sacred desk where your pastor read,

While angels smiled--impending--

There the ceaseless worm hath in silence, fed

With your dust, 'tis slowly blending.

God's tables torn from the sacred wall!

What hand was so rashly daring?

And their whiteness stain'd by the fiend-like scrawl

Of some lost spirit--despairing.

Oh, sight of woe!--the altar gone!

That spot of the Christian union,

Where once ye sought the eternal throne,

With the cup of the lov'd communion.

E'en soldiers here, beneath this roof,

Have held their midnight orgies,

And without hath tramp'd the charger's hoof,

Till the grave well nigh disgorges.

Adieu! adieu! lone house of God!

I shrink from thy profaning--

The impious foot of war hath trod

Where the Prince of Peace was reigning.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ESTELLE.

I'm standing at thy couch Estelle--

Thy hand in mine--awake my love!--

O'er silent lake and leafy dell

Calm eve is sinking from above;

Wilt thou not look upon the scene

Which from yon casement woos thine eyes?

The light shines beauteously between

The far off mountains where its last blush dies. {540}

I kiss thee sweet--how cold thy lip!--

How pale thy cheek!--thy brow how white!--

And chill as unsunned flowers that dip

Their colorless leaves in dews of night.

In vain--in vain I call on thee--

Thou answerest not that once loved call--

Thou hast no word--no look for me--

How heavily from mine thy hand doth fall!

Yet dearest, while I gaze on thee,

Whom I have loved so long--so well--

It seems not all reality

That I have lost thee quite, Estelle.

I have a sense, though vague and dim,

Of something which my heart hath stilled--

The formless shadow of a dream

That with oppressive thoughts my mind hath filled.

The mist is fading--yet so fair!

Can this be death?--this, beauteous sleep!--

Yes!--Yes!--and they will lay thee where

The earth is damp and worms do creep--

Oh! God!--that reptiles--horrid thought!--

Must banquet on those lovely limbs,

Whose faultless outline, seemeth not

Traced for this world of dark and sullen dreams.

It must be so--the grave--the grave

Relentless swallows all we love,--

Mind--Beauty--Virtue--naught can save--

And yet there is a God above!--

I only know--I only feel

Thou'rt doomed to be the earthworm's prey,

The newt will o'er thy bosom steal,

And loathsome things through thy rich tresses stray.

* * * * *

* * * * *

I hear the sound of many feet--

A moment more, they will be here--

One kiss--one more.--Farewell my sweet,

Let others weep around thy bier,

Who loved thee well--yet loved thee less--

I cannot weep--the fount is dry

In sorrow's utter wilderness--

And with a tearless voiceless thought I die.[1]

[Footnote 1: But as it is, I live and die unheard,

With a most voiceless thought sheathing it as a sword.

[_Childe Harold_, Canto III. Stanza xcvii.

Not a plagiarism but a _coincidence_; a softer term, and more in

vogue.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

----through the vigils of the joyless day and the broken dreams of the

night, there was a charm upon his soul--a hell within himself; and the

curse of his sentence was never to forget.--_Falkland_.

There is a thought that still obtrudes in lone and festive hours;

It falls upon my withered heart like desert winds on flowers:

Oh! read it in my altered brow and in my sunken eye,

I cannot speak it, for the words upon my lips would die.

At evening when I muse alone and calmer visions rise,

Such as will sometimes swim before the veriest wretch's eyes,

That thought will start up suddenly, like spectre from the graves,

And rend the fragile web of joys poor Fancy idly weaves.

In scenes of mirth and revelry I mingle--'tis in vain--

My spirit finds no Lethe in the cup I madly drain;

And when I strive to laugh, like those whose hearts are light and

free--

What ghastly echo of their mirth!--what bitter mockery!

Alas! the silver chord is loosed--the golden bowl is broken;

Remembrance strews my blighted path with many a bitter token;

And on my heart a fearful sign is set forever more--

A burning seal like that they say the wandering Hebrew bore.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FAREWELL TO ROSA.

Rosa, Rosa, first and fairest,

Best beloved and ever dearest,

How shall I tear myself away,

Nor all the tender thoughts convey,

Which my swoll'n bosom bursts to tell

At bidding thee this last farewell.

But mark not thou the changing cheek,

The swimming eye, and accent weak,

The quivering lip, and pallid brow,

These signs of grief, oh! mark not thou,

Nor see my vain attempt to hide

Love's softness in the look of Pride.

My gloomy look, my mournful sigh,

Thou must not see, thou must not hear,

Nor, Rosa, must thou ask me, why

I brush away the gathered tear;

Thou must not seek the veil to move,

Which honor throws o'er hopeless love.

I know 'twould grieve they gentle heart

To feel that thou art all the cause,

That these unnumbered tears now start

In eyes which were, while hope yet was,

As bright as ever Love lit up,

To beam on Pleasure's sparkling cup.

My peace of mind forever fled,

My hopes of future fame destroyed,

My only tree of promise dead,

Its fruit all blighted ere enjoyed,

And gone the light that cheered my morn

Of life, ere half its hours were worn.

Live thou unconscious of the grief

A hopeless passion wakes in me;

It would not yield my heart relief

To know its pangs were shared by thee;

Let me but feel thy bliss secure,

And know no sorrows threaten thee,

And I can unsubdued endure

All Fortune's malice heaps on me.

But when some wild secluded spot

Shall mark my life's eventless round;

And when an humble lonely cot

My once ambitious hopes shall bound;

Oh! Rosa, let one sigh regret

The hours that I can ne'er forget.

{541}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. II.

For scarcely entering on my prime of age,

Grief marked me for her own.

[_Camoens, by Lord Strangford_.

My education had been superintended exclusively by my mother. Under

her intelligent control I had mastered the common rudiments of

learning, and had acquired, from my intellectual association with her,

a taste for poetry and light philosophy. I read every thing with an

earnestness which knew no satiety. In my fifteenth year, my mind was a

rude mass of incongruous erudition; possessing learning without

accuracy, and information without wisdom. My character derived a

rudeness from the unbroken solitude of my studies, taking, like the

insect of the forest, the hue of the leaf on which it lived and

banqueted. The "Book of Martyrs," awakened into melancholy the

sympathies of my heart, and lashed into bitterness the fierce

intolerance of my passions. I was religious only in the vengeance of

persecution! How often have I felt, beneath the prayers of my mother,

the gentleness of a hallowed contrition stealing over my proud heart.

Alas! that this contagious sympathy should leave no impression; for I

would return to my favorite feast of blood, and arise from its

enjoyment a tyrant and a bigot.

The day on which I was sent to school, is deeply marked on my memory.

The preparations for my departure, the advice of my mother, the

remonstrances of my nurse, and the tears of Scipio, were the gloomy

heralds of my utter desolation of heart. Our slaves, as I passed them

in the chariot, left their work and ran to bless me. Many of them bade

me farewell with struggling emotion, while several of the old ones

told me to be of stout heart, and never forget that I was a Granby. I

sobbed aloud in the fulness of my heart, when I gave them my hand. The

sternness of manhood has never blushed for those tears.

My teacher was a native of Scotland, and officiated as the minister to

the parish in which he resided. Like most scholars, he could turn to

the example of Socrates for resignation under the rule of the

shrillest of all Xantippes. It was the principal weapon he used in his

marital patience, but with that success which always made him doubt

his own victory. He was a curious compound of pedantry, simplicity,

and erudition. His existence was a verb, and his whole life was a dull

routine of plain theology and pompous verbosity. He was under many

ties of gratitude to our family, and my arrival was greeted by him

with demonstrations of pleasure and affection.

I was now almost alone in the world. The silken luxury, the

aristocratic pride, and the unsubdued temper in which I had been bred,

utterly disqualified me for the democracy in which I was placed. In

the solitude of my pride I turned to the resources of study, and by a

severity of character I chilled into cold contempt the incipient

friendship of many a noble and ingenuous heart. I made but one friend,

and to him I clung with affectionate enthusiasm. To Arthur Ludwell I

disclosed the secret feelings and desires of my nature. He could

reprove me without inflicting pain, and excite me to labor without

flattery. His heart was the chosen citadel of every virtue under

heaven, and he was wont to bear the whirlwind of my passions without a

murmur of resentment. On one occasion I had treated him with excessive

rudeness. He bore my pride with his accustomed fortitude; and that

night, after I had retired to bed, he entered my room, and thinking me

asleep, he bent over my face and wept like a child. Could I ask a

keener reproach? Could I demand a better proof of the purity and

delicacy of his affection?

In this school there was a student named Pilton, the only son of one

who had been many years before my birth, an overseer on the plantation

of my father, and who had amassed, by economy and industry, a large

fortune. He was a rude, vulgar, and unfeeling boy, with a harsh

countenance and coarsely built frame. His hair was a dingy red, and

his frame uncouth and repulsive; yet he possessed a genius which could

grasp every difficulty, and an intellect which could master the

asperities of every science. I hated him with a vindictive and

uncompromising energy. I did not envy him, for I could not so far

disgrace the dignity of that passion (the cousin-german of school-boy

emulation) as to extend its malevolence to such a being. My feelings

towards him, were disgust and unalterable contempt. He was frank

without liberality, and candid without honor. Deceit flung its patched

mantle over the chronic vice of his character, and duplicity ruled a

heart in which nature had thrown neither fire, delicacy, nor

elevation. From the influence of his mind he had attached to himself a

considerable party of the timid, irresolute, and indolent; yet he

shrunk from the merciless venom of my scorn. Though a coward he could

display the courage of necessity, and would sometimes retort my

sarcasms with severity and firmness. Shortly before our separation, we

had quarrelled with implacable fierceness. I called him a coward, and

an ill-bred vagrant. He replied to my attack in these words, which

ever in after-life, writhed around my memory in a cold and

scorpion-like embrace:

"Mr. Granby! I know the history of your proud family. You are

seventeen years of age. Do you not dread the mystery of that number,

which made your grandfather a premature dotard? Beware! I am revenged.

You will live a lunatic and die a driveller."

I was silent under this fearful curse. The narrative of my

grandfather's precocious youth and imbecile adolescence, his lofty

chivalry and stubborn pride, which I had often drank from the

garrulity of my nurse, was borne before me in a full and freshening

tide. I controlled my struggling passions, and quitted my adversary

humbled more by the agony of my own feelings, than excited by the

bitterness of his retort. This scene constituted an era in the history

of my hate. Revenge hourly lashed itself into frenzy; and amid the

bustle of the day and the solitude of the night, I never ceased from

the pursuit of an opportunity to gratify the deeply seated passion of

my heart. I never forgave him! I banqueted on that merciless revenge,

which dripping in a steady and uniform course through the recesses of

my heart, formed a cold and impenetrable stalactite of withering

malignity. It was a treasured, honored, and hoarded hate which planted

itself firmly in my bosom, and which eagerly longed for its time of

fruition. Even now, when time has worn down the fierceness of my life

and softened into resignation the frown of destiny, {542} this passion

blooms on, with more freshness and constancy than the mistletoe which

scatters its wild luxuriance around the blasted and ruined oak.

The period now approached when I was to quit school. I had never

returned home, but the pains of absence had been alleviated by the

monthly visits of Scipio, always laden with letters of reproof from my

mother, love from Lucy, ambition from my brother, and scraps of Horace

and quaint gallantries from my uncle. I had learned rapidly and

accurately, mastering the spirit and elegance of the Latin language,

and acquiring that measure of Greek literature which enables the

Virginian scholar to play the pedant on it for one year, and

authorises him to forget it in two.

Arthur Ludwell had promised to accompany me home; and in a short time

the Chalgrave chariot, with its massy doors, conceited driver, tangled

harness and gazing postilion, brought the glad tidings of my return to

the home of my fathers. I quitted school without regret, for there I

had spent some of the most miserable hours of my existence. With how

much delusive philosophy do we dwell on the vapid pleasures of our

schoolboy days! and when tired of the poor farce of cheating ourselves

into a little happiness, we labor to coax ourselves into tenderness by

invoking the remembrance of some shadowy and negative dream. Our

cares, vexations and disappointments, as men, make us envy the

apparent tranquillity of the boy, while we forget that youth, though a

smaller circumference of mortality, has yet the same centre of

passion, hope and disappointment. In the spring-time of life we are

full of elastic anticipation; and over the brilliant horizon which it

creates, each cloud drifts rapidly by and none sojourns to darken the

brilliant outline. We fondly believe that all beyond is a candid and

generous world, eager to applaud our genius or reciprocate our

sympathies. How soon is this gossamer fabric crushed beneath the

rugged grasp of reality, and how truly do we find that anticipation is

folly, and retrospection an utter foolishness of heart.

On a laughing morning in spring I quitted school for home, with all my

buoyant feelings of filial and fraternal love chastised into

wretchedness by the curse of Pilton.

* * * * *

CHAP. III.

Even the pine forests in which he rambled in boyhood, are still

hallowed in his recollection.--_Farmer's Register_.

There is a bright and glowing loveliness in the climate of Virginia.

Its sudden vicissitudes, like the smiles of the coquette, bring with

them all the excitements of pleasing variety, and we half forget its

momentary frowns in the constancy of its brightness. Spring dallies

away all its freshness and gentleness among the hills, the flowers and

the forests of Virginia; at this season of the year the cloudless sky,

the exhilarating luxury of the noontide sun, the dark yet bright green

of her woods and meadows, and the busy hum of animated nature, steal

over the heart with a holy and impassioned sympathy. Habit, with all

its deadening attritions, cannot wear off that admiration and rapture

with which we revel in the softness of a Virginian day. Italy's

burning sky awakens into ecstacy the sluggish native of England, and

he breathes in polished verse the brilliancy of that clime which

stands in bold relief against the gloomy fogs of his own sea-girt

isle. We catch the delusive truth which poetry whispers, and forget

that the climate of Italy is saddened, even in its brightness, by a

tedious monotony which falls on the sated appetite. It is a spirit

without animation, and burns on with the steadiness and glare of a

sepulchral lamp. In Virginia it is diversified by endless and varied

blushes of gentleness and beauty. The laziest cloud seems to roll away

in voluptuous ether. The breeze murmurs through the forest, and

lingers there to gather all its swelling fragrance. Every thing is

redolent of that freshness of nature which fancy would invoke for the

bridal of the earth and sky.

"And all the scene in short, sky, earth and sea

Breathes like a bright-eyed face--that laughs out openly."

It was in this beautiful season of the year that, on turning an angle

of the forest, the Chalgrave plantation with its stately mansion,

extensive champaign and numerous cottages, broke upon our anxious

view. The last rays of the setting sun poured their struggling light

over the broad bosom of the Chesapeake, which reflected in trembling

obscurity the shadowy outline of the forest, hill and plain. One bound

from the chariot, placed me in my mother's arms. She was dignified

even in her tenderness; and disengaging herself from me with a kiss,

she left me to the affectionate salutation of Lucy, the warm greeting

of Frederick, and the smiles of my uncle. A scuffle now ensued among

the negroes who should be the first to grasp my extended hand; for in

the fulness of my joy, I had offered this simple politeness with more

of feeling than generally characterizes this striking indication of

the well-bred Virginian. My old nurse sobbed, and laughed aloud in the

rapture of her pleasure; the ostler commenced a tedious history of the

pedigree, form, and swiftness of every colt on the estate; while the

dining room servant told me that he was (Je-oh) delighted I had not

learned to chew tobacco or wear striped pantaloons. For every

salutation I gave, I received a compliment remarkable for its wildness

of metaphor and for the affection which accompanied it. "Mass Lionel

(said one) is a true Diomed, every inch of him." "He is born like the

eagle, (cried another) a gentleman, and a man of spirit." "He is

prettier (exclaimed a third) than all Miss Lucy's flowers!" I laughed

outright at their odd and curious courtesy, and dismissing them with a

promise that I would visit the aged and infirm in the morning, I

lingered at the door, listening to their light and frolic laugh, which

mingled and lost itself in the murmuring breeze which was now dancing

over the Chesapeake.

And this was slavery! That heart must be torpid--that sensibility

obtuse, which could experience such a display of unbought affection,

without emotion. This devotion disarms slavery of half its gorgons

dire, and leaves us the gratifying consolation, that its abstract vice

is softened into gentleness by the humanity of its practice. Laws are

not always the truest indications of the moral tone of society. They

are the heartless creations of policy, necessity and faction, and take

their pride of place from the darkest passions of human nature. Power

and obedience are the necessary components of their being; penalty and

punishment the active spirit of their existence. Fully armed, they

spring into the conflict of virtue and depravity, and bear an iron

front, independent of season, time and {543} circumstance. Policy may

rivet their fetters, yet they fall inoperative and harmless beneath

the silent force of that gigantic lever of society--public opinion.

Slavery, considered with reference to the laws of Virginia, is a state

of penalty, degradation and suffering. Viewed in relation to its

practical existence, it is a condition of ease, tranquillity and

protection. There is no misery where there is no complaint; no

wretchedness where all is peace; and if happiness arise from

comparative situation, the Virginian slave eminently enjoys it. He is

far removed from the starvation and nakedness of European pauperism.

He is a being who invites kindness by acknowledging gratitude; who

excites humanity by the noiseless virtue of his life; and who awakens

protection by the constancy of his fidelity. The master feels the

pride of protection expanding into a chivalry of defence; the slave,

in confiding in it, makes no other offering than that of fidelity.

These blended feelings invigorate and form the strength and harmony of

social life, and eloquently argue to us the truth of that simple

maxim, that there can be no fear where all is confidence--no treachery

where there is no oppression. The Virginian slave becomes a member of

the family in which he was born, and what mutation soever of fortune

attend him, his heart is never recreant to the scenes of his

childhood. Proud in the prosperity of his "_family_," yet never

faithless in its adversity, he is the living chronicler of its rise

and elevation, and cannot--will not, believe that it can fall. He is

the greatest aristocrat on earth; and the surest avenue to his

friendship, is made by that vanity which induces him to believe that

the family in which he was _raised_, is noble, prosperous and proud.

Quick to perceive vulgarity, and constant in his hatred of it, he

wears his pride gracefully, and his dignity with calm tranquillity.

Public opinion will suffer no master to use him inhumanly. Undisturbed

by the cares and vexations attendant on the support of a family, he is

clothed with comfort, and has enough of finery to be a Sunday

exquisite; and though he be degraded in the order of society, he feels

and believes himself to be an important link in the chain of life.

Claudian's beautiful lines convey no paradox when applied to the

slavery of Virginia:

"Nunquam gratior, extat libertas

Quam sub pio rege."

Home, with all its endearments of early association and present

enjoyment, was now within my eager embrace, and my affections poured

out their suppressed enthusiasm, in the expanded circle of tranquil

rapture, even as a bold stream which gushes up to the full fountain

which gave it life. This was _home!_--that ideal abstraction which

takes the deepened hue of reality, and which leaps into existence,

independent of all control. Strange, powerful, unconquerable passion!

It asks no aid from the sternness of reason; it demands no support

from the habits or pursuits of life. The heart is its chosen dwelling

place; and around this hallowed altar, memory invokes her active

drama, and fancy scatters its opiate dreams. It burns on amid the

eternal snows of the poles, and glows with unextinguishable ardor

under the sunny skies of the equator. It breathes its soft melody to

the slumbers of the child--stimulates the energy of virtue--nerves the

arm of courage--chequers with light the gloom of despair--invigorates

the hope of the exile--chastens into patriotism the wild riot of

ambition--and while it is the first passion of our nature, it is the

last vital fragment in the wreck of mortality.

The history of one day at Chalgrave, was the history of the year. Its

portals were ever open to the neighbor and stranger, and a constant

throng of company, attracted by its easy hospitality, rendered it gay,

social and animated. Each morning the old bell summoned the household

to prayers, which by their simplicity, awakened religious awe, without

melancholy, and excited humble piety, without fanaticism. Breakfast

was a feast, where the mongrel compound of dinner and supper appeared

like the relics of a banquet for giants. Earth, sky and sea produced

their tributary luxuries; and we were left not to wonder at its

extravagance, but at that generous hospitality which found its honor

in profusion. This important hour, so useful in dividing the day,

having passed, the old chariot was regularly wheeled to the door;

ponies for the ladies, blooded horses for the gentlemen, and colts for

the boys, were brought out, and the whole household prepared for a

ride. Any route would suffice--any highway would be agreeable; but the

ride was as necessary to a Virginian's existence, as sedentary

grumbling is to an Englishman's. He is then happy--for early and

unbroken habit has made him for one half of his life a perfect

centaur. On horseback he experiences no solitude, and in its

exhilarating exercise, he can forget his much loved politics. The

excursion being finished, the company to please their own feelings as

much as the pride of their host, would gather around the stables, and

for hours critically examine, and earnestly dispute the merits and

points of every blooded colt. Dinner was the feast of a caravan. At

its close, my mother would retire, followed by the ladies--and at the

door she would make a curious old fashioned court'sy, which my uncle,

graceful as he was, uniformly returned by a bow, equally aboriginal

and grotesque. The pure wine of Madeira now sparkled on the board, and

awoke flashes of wit from the indolent, and started from its dream of

torpor that spirit-stirring eloquence which sleeps in the intellectual

quiescence of the Virginian character. Festivity was never prolonged

to debauch, and a firm step carried the gentlemen into the parlor,

where the ladies, chess and newspapers, beguiled the lethargy of time.

Arthur Ludwell had resolved to pursue his studies at the College of

William and Mary, and his determinations had influenced my mother to

send me to the same institution. In a few days I was summoned into the

library, where my mother and Frederick were prepared to persuade me

into the scheme,--she by the resistless weapon of maternal tenderness,

and he by the deceitful logic of ambition. I heard with patience their

advice and flattery; and first learned to dread, from an intimation of

my brother, that fiend-like spectre, which in the guise of a chancery

suit, greets the rising opulence of every family in Virginia--lends a

hue of melancholy to its prosperity, and never quits its iron grasp,

until it shriek a requiem over the utter ruin and despair of its

victim.

"You are affluent," said Frederick, "but whether we gain or lose one

chancery suit, it is highly probable that you may yet be forced to

engage in some profession which {544} can ensure an honorable support.

Can you object to the practice of law? It is a profession full of

profit and honor--the highway to intellectual distinction and

political advancement. Enter then diligently on its study, and how

rude soever may be its details, you will quickly find that its pursuit

will imperceptibly fashion your mind into a passionate love for its

wisdom and philosophy. Look on it as a jealous coquette; give it all

your attention or none; and success will be as honorable to your

genius as it is gratifying to your pride."

"Go! my dear boy," said my uncle, who now entered the room, "for we

all belong to William and Mary--it is the cradle of our genius, and

the nurse of our chivalry. I care naught about your profession, but

for God's sake, learn something about the mystery of this fatal

chancery."

I might have been stubborn! My indolence reeled under the fear of this

dark suit, and I instantly resolved to propitiate the demon by

becoming a priest in his temple.

THETA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS,

_During the Summer of 1834_.

NO. II.

SALT AND RED SULPHUR.

Having engaged a seat in the best line, I took a last look at the

beauties of the White Sulphur, and soon found myself rolling away for

the Salt. The morning was dark and cloudy, with occasional showers,

and having shut up our splendid coach, we were left to our own

reveries except when disturbed by an occasional "long yarn" from an

ex-gentleman of the box, narrating his adventures among the mountains

of North Carolina, or ever and anon by the nasal melody from the

olfactory organs of some fellow traveller, who had resigned himself

into the arms of Morpheus. Our whole company, however, seemed to

partake somewhat of the gloom which the aspect of the day was

calculated to inspire, whilst our driver, on the contrary, with all

imaginable glee, took advantage of the smooth turnpike and a noble

team, to whirl us at a jehu rate over the first part of our journey.

The joys of a good road and rapid travelling, were, however, very soon

terminated, for our way left the turnpike and led us for several miles

up the rough, stony bed of a creek, and over long and rugged hills,

much to the annoyance of one or more fair fellow passengers. The day

began to brighten as we approached Union, the seat of justice of

Monroe county, and a neat village, containing a wealthy and

intelligent population. Most of the country, after leaving the White

Sulphur, had been wild and uncultivated, although it had the

appearance of natural fertility; but now some of the large grazing

farms, for which this section of Virginia is so celebrated, spread out

their clovered fields in rich luxuriance before us. The general aspect

of this region is that of a newly settled country; most of the farm

houses, even of men of wealth, being the log tenements erected in the

rude style of the frontier settlements. Occasionally, however, there

are handsome edifices, built in accordance with a more modern and

refined taste. Large numbers of cattle are annually taken from this

and the adjoining counties, to the northern markets. The natural

growth of grass, found even in the forests, offers great facilities

for amassing fortunes by speculations of this description.--After

arriving at Union, there remained but three miles of our journey

before us; and having taken leave of the worst of the rocks and hills,

we forgot the unpleasantness of the morning, in the enjoyment of the

beautiful scenery, and the fine, clear day, with which we were

blessed, as we drew near the Salt Sulphur. On our right lay a

continued range of mountains, upon one of the spurs of which could be

seen the residence of a gentleman of South Carolina, who has erected a

showy summer retreat upon this airy peak, which commands a view of the

springs, the village of Union, and the adjoining country. On our left,

was pointed out as we passed, amongst other attractions, the "royal

oak," an immense and most noble tree, to which Mr. Jefferson has given

this title in his "Notes on Virginia." The valley of the Sweet Sulphur

opened to our view as we approached, but its beauties were forgotten,

as through its further extremity we caught a glimpse of our place of

destination, and especially as we soon plunged through the "creek,"

and into the gate at the Salt Sulphur.

A stranger who takes the White Sulphur, as a specimen, as to external

appearance, of the other springs, would be disappointed, when, after

the first glance, he gets a full view of the Salt Sulphur. Nature has

not been so lavish of her gifts as at the White Sulphur, and art has

as yet added but little to its outward charms. The Salt Sulphur is

situated in a ravine, between two small mountains. One of these,

slopes very gradually, and upon its side at the distance of some two

hundred paces from the base, a row of cottages has been erected.

Parallel with these, at the base of the hill, is a similar range, both

fronting the level in the valley. Then on the same ascent, and in the

direction of the gate, through which you enter upon the spring's

premises, is a small hollow square, the farther side of which is

connected with the range at the base of the hill, and runs up the

acclivity at right angles to that range. Most of these buildings are

constructed, according to the early fashion of the country, of hewn

logs: many of them have piazza's, and all are close and comfortable.

We understand that the proprietors will soon erect ranges of two-story

stone buildings in their stead. The hotel is a noble building; the

main body of the edifice is near two hundred feet in length, the

entire lower floor of which is used as a dining room. A double piazza

extends along the whole front, and the upper story is occupied as a

dancing {545} saloon, lodging rooms, &c. At right angles to this

building, at the western extremity, and facing the long ranges on the

opposite side of the level, are a few framed cottages, and a two-story

stone building, affording very comfortable and pleasant

accommodations. The spring, which is some hundred paces higher up the

ravine, is protected by a temple somewhat similar to that at the White

Sulphur, from the floor of which flights of cut stone steps lead down

to the reservoir. The reservoir is a square of about two feet, and is

also constructed of hewn sand-stone.

At the White Sulphur, the fairest prospects greet the visiter at his

arrival, and every succeeding day of his sojourn only serves to make

disclosures, such as mar the first impressions. At the Salt Sulphur,

on the contrary, first appearances are rather unpropitious, but there

is every thing to gain; we know of no more delightful place in the

southern country for spending the sultry months of summer. Indeed we

believe, that several families from the Carolinas, and one or more

from the north, are accustomed to establish themselves here for the

whole season. The proprietors are intelligent gentlemen, and more

thoroughly skilled in the art of accommodating, than any men I have

ever seen. Their table, which is so justly celebrated, is perhaps the

finest in this country. The great danger, however, from this source,

is, lest the refined luxuries of the culinary department, should

destroy the medicinal effects of the waters. Every attention which

could reasonably be required at such an establishment, is here

received. All the arrangements are made with the most perfect system.

During the last season, the visiters, generally, were of the very

first order, and there was a smaller proportion of low characters than

was to be found at perhaps any of the other springs. There was also

much sociability and true Virginia feeling.

In the evenings, a fine band sent its notes over the still valley, and

the more gay portion of the company passed the hours in the ball room.

Among the visiters at this place also, was the Rev. Dr. Johns, of

Baltimore, and other eminent ministers, and those disposed to enjoy

the more abiding pleasures of religion, met, with the close of every

day, and were led in their devotions by these men of God. On the

Sabbath, too, there were always interesting and appropriate services.

The proprietors have provided for the visiters means of amusement and

recreation, which serve to give a zest to the hours which sometimes

hang heavily at these watering places, at the same time that they

afford a substitute for those pernicious games which are so frequently

resorted to in weary moments. Many of the younger visiters gratify

their taste for horsemanship, by taking excursions along the wild and

romantic roads, which wind through the country, on the fine Virginia

steeds, which are found in this region.

The Salt Sulphur water has been particularly efficacious in affections

of the stomach. It possesses most of the active, without the

stimulating properties of the White Sulphur. On this account the Salt

Sulphur water would probably be a more suitable preparative, in

pulmonary cases, for those waters which act more directly upon the

respiratory system. Indeed, some instances are mentioned where the use

of this water alone has effected the cure of individuals subject to

hemorrhage from the lungs. With an occasional use of the blue pill,

its effect upon the liver is also very pleasant, although not so

beneficial as the White Sulphur water. With dyspeptics, in addition to

its other action, it has the peculiar property of neutralizing by its

alkaline matter, the distressing acidity, to which they are subject.

Cold and tepid sulphuretted baths, can be obtained at any time, so

that the patient can have the combined effects of the external and

internal action of the water upon his system at the same time.

At the distance of less than a mile, in the direction of Union, there

is another spring called the Sweet Sulphur, which is also the property

of the proprietors of the Salt Sulphur. This spring was a place of

considerable resort, until the Salt Sulphur was discovered and

improved: no separate accommodations are now provided, but it can be

conveniently used by visiters at the Salt Sulphur. It is said to

possess less sulphuretted hydrogen, and greater tonic properties than

the latter spring.

We must now bid adieu to the Salt Sulphur, leaving with it our best

wishes. The enterprising proprietors are continuing their

improvements, so that this spring will, in every point of view, soon

merit the praise of being the most inviting resort among the

mountains.

RED SULPHUR.

After taking a lunch, we sat off early in the afternoon, with a

crowded stage, for the Red Sulphur, seventeen miles west of the Salt.

Our road wound by a very circuitous route, to the summit of the small

mountain, in the rear of the Salt Sulphur. On our left, as we

ascended, the mountain's side became quite precipitous, and at the

base and immediately beneath us, lay the valley of the springs--its

green lawn and white cottages presenting a most interesting and

beautiful scene. This is one of the favorite strolling spots of

visiters, since the view which it affords of the springs and the

adjoining country, fully compensates for the labor of climbing the

mountain. We believe, however, that most of our company would have

preferred a situation on _terra firma_, to that which they occupied in

the stage coach, which ever and anon, as it slowly grated over the

rough and rocky way, gave fearful symptoms of carrying us down the

dizzy steep which we had gained.

A great part of the road between the Salt and Red Sulphur, leads over

long hills and continuous {546} ridges, out of the sides of which it

has been in many places cut, in order to obtain the proper

inclination. From some reason, most probably a scarcity of funds, the

road is so narrow as to render it often dangerous, and entirely

unsuitable for so public a thoroughfare. The reflections of the

traveller, as he dashes down these narrow descents, are by no means

pleasant. He involuntarily transfers himself to the upper side of the

stage, as he gets a glimpse from the window, of the deep ravine, along

the verge of which he is rolling at so furious a rate. The

anticipation too, as well as the actual fact, of meeting other

vehicles in these passes, is not at all agreeable. The driver of the

coach, however, obviates, as far as possible, the difficulty from this

source, by sounding his horn as he approaches and travels through

these narrow parts of the road. Perhaps, however, we are conveying

rather too unfavorable an impression of the way between the Salt and

Red Sulphur. If, however, the traveller wishes to avoid all unpleasant

reflections on account of his personal safety, it may be as well for

him to adopt one of the expedients of the hero of "Sleepy Hollow," as

he trod its gloomy paths, amidst the tortures of a fertile

imagination, and shut his eyes, at least, if the presence of fellow

passengers will not admit of one's raising his voice in a consolitary

_solo_. We can, however, present to our readers, the prospect of a

resource, which will be a more satisfactory expedient than this.

Arrangements were making during the last summer, for the immediate

construction of a turnpike over this ground; then the trip would

present many attractions. The country is wild and generally

uncultivated, and often delightfully romantic. About half way between

the two springs, we saw the wreck of the family carriage of a

gentleman from South Carolina. This accident, however, was not, at

least, the _immediate_ consequence of the roughness of the road; for

it occurred on a perfect level, and on, perhaps, the smoothest part of

the whole way. Carriages constructed for the Carolina sands, are badly

adapted to the mountains of Virginia.

Our driver quickened his speed as the distance before us diminished,

and we reached the Red Sulphur just after night had drawn his sombre

curtains around the silent hills. Our first impressions of this

spring, were very favorable: the effect was exceedingly imposing. On

our arrival the whole establishment had been lighted up, and from

every range of buildings, streams of light were pouring across the

area. The large hotel presents at any time a beautiful appearance. The

whole building has a light and airy piazza connected with each story,

and on the flank of the edifice most conspicuous on approaching the

spring, the upper floor is open and surrounded by a balustrade. The

first story of this building contains a large dining room, connected

with which is a drawing and reading room. When we approached, these

piazzas were all lighted up, and from the doors and windows of the

halls and apartments of the hotel, the chandeliers were pouring forth

their brilliant streams. Two long and handsomely set tables, were

visible through the doors of the dining room, and every thing had the

aspect of comfort and even of luxury. The lower piazza was thronged

with cheerful groups of visiters, eagerly awaiting the arrival of our

coach, which on that evening was rather behind its usual time.

For the last hour our meditations had been excited only by the gloom

and wildness of the dark mountain hollows, and the song of the frogs

from the neighboring creeks, or the cry of the screech owl as the

rattling of our coach echoed through his dark domains. In the midst of

the pensive reveries incident upon such circumstances, the buildings

of the Red Sulphur burst upon us in all their brilliancy. The scene of

light, and life, and bustle, came over us like enchantment. The valley

before us presented a picture of brightness and refinement, whilst on

each side the venerable peaks of the Alleghany rose in all their

wildness, and spoke to our hearts in silent sublimity, as we discerned

their rugged outline against the evening sky. One might have found it

almost difficult to convince himself, that he was not taking for

reality the romantic visions of his sleeping hours. This impression is

not diminished by the winding of the post horn from the "western

stage," as it rattles over the crags of the mountain above, or by the

plaintive notes of "Home, sweet home," wafted from the band stationed

in the drawing room.

The Red Sulphur has recently been purchased by Mr. Burke, an

intelligent and enterprising gentleman, who has already given to the

place an almost entirely new aspect. Many of the old houses have been

removed--a large and beautiful building, in addition to the hotel, has

been constructed, and most of the log cabins have been exchanged for

neat white cottages. The irregularity occasioned by the projection of

the mountain spurs, has prevented the arrangement of the buildings in

the order calculated to produce the most pleasant effect. The Red

Sulphur is completely enclosed by mountains, except a narrow space by

which you enter the circumscribed valley. On each side they rise

almost perpendicularly to a considerable height. One of these, we

understand, the proprietor intends laying out with terraced walks, so

that you can with ease ascend to the summit, and enjoy the extensive

prospect. The buildings are erected close under the base of the

mountains. The intermediate area will be set in green sward, with

gravelled walks and shrubbery. The temple at the spring is very

similar to those at the White and Salt Sulphur. There are, however,

two springs, and two separate and beautiful reservoirs. One of these

is about four, and the other about two {547} feet square. They are

constructed of white marble, which agrees beautifully with the lilac

and peach blossom sediment, and the clear limpid water of the springs.

The Red Sulphur, though but lately improved for the comfortable

accommodation of visiters, has been for some years known as a place of

considerable resort by pulmonary patients. The company bears much more

the aspect of sickness, than that at the other springs. Their

death-like countenances can be seen on every hand; and the deep hollow

cough, which is heard almost incessantly, has at first a tendency to

affect the sympathies and to throw an air of melancholy over the

feelings. Many in the last stages of consumption, are taken to the Red

Sulphur as the final resort, and many, during almost every season,

find their long, last home, among the hills near the Red Sulphur. The

funeral of Gen. Alston, of South Carolina, was attended on the day of

our arrival, and another individual soon followed him to the tomb. The

Red Sulphur is well calculated to remind a reflecting man of his

mortality.

Many cases are also mentioned of astonishing cures, which have been

effected by the use of these waters. Their properties are singular,

and apparently contradictory. They deplete and strengthen the system

at the same time: they reduce the quantity of blood, and still act

with all the power of a tonic. The most peculiar property, however, is

that which effects an almost immediate reduction of the pulse.

Instances are known where the pulsations have been reduced from one

hundred and twenty to eighty in the space of twenty-four hours. The

effect of these waters, is at first apparently unfavorable. They

frequently, and perhaps generally occasion a feverish excitement, and

an unpleasant sensation of fulness throughout the whole system. I have

been informed, however, by those who attribute the renovation of their

constitutions to the Red Sulphur, that this excitement ceases after

perhaps ten days or two weeks, and often much earlier, and then, if at

all, unless the ravages of disease have been excessive, they begin to

produce the desired effect. I met with a gentleman, in returning from

the Red Sulphur, who had been pronounced past recovery by the most

eminent physicians in this country, from a chronic affection of the

lungs, but who, at the time I saw him, was enjoying excellent health,

and as he believed, was entirely free from any pulmonary symptoms. He

attributed his restoration solely to a residence during several

seasons at the Red Sulphur.

We must, however, in closing this brief notice of the Red Sulphur,

record some complaints against that establishment. We do it, however,

with a spirit very far from that of reproach. Our object is rather the

comfort of the public, and the more extensive encouragement of the

gentlemanly proprietor. The great defect at the Red Sulphur arises

principally from the want of system. The irregularity in the

arrangements is exceedingly unpleasant to the visiters, and especially

to those who are invalids. There is also a great want of proper

attention, on the part of those who have charge of the establishment,

and particularly from the servants. We must also express the same

opinion of the manager of the Red Sulphur, which we have advanced in

relation to the person who holds the same office at the White Sulphur.

He may be admirably adapted for some other situation, but, in our

opinion, he is not suited for that which he now occupies. Both of

these gentlemen have certainly seen enough of the world to know, that

something more substantial than promises, is necessary to satisfy the

wants of men. We again affirm, that we have spoken nothing in ill

will, either toward the White or Red Sulphur, nor to the gentlemen to

whom we have alluded. Our remarks have reference to them only as

_managers_ of extensive public establishments, and not as private men.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CONVERSATION PARTIES, SOIREES AND SQUEEZES.

MR. WHITE,--If I may be permitted to imitate in _my_ exordium, the

happy brevity of the time-saving merchant in auditing _his_ letters, I

will begin by expressing the hope, that "my last of ---- date has been

received and contents duly noted." The excuse for following it up so

speedily with another, is not so easily found. Indeed I know of none,

unless you will accept as such the old plea--"in for a penny, in for a

pound." Even this implies a less risk of censure than I fear my

rashness may very possibly bring upon me. Methinks I already hear some

of your younger readers demand--"what the deuce has such an old

croaker as this impertinent Oliver Oldschool to do with the inroads

that _we_, his juniors and therefore his betters, may choose to make

on any or all of those antiquated manners, customs and fashions which

seem to be the gods of his idolatry? Age, which stamps their value

upon wine and ardent spirits, is precisely _that very thing_ which

renders fashion of no value at all. In _this_, novelty and

unexpectedness are our _grand_, and often our sole desiderata; and for

_their_ attainment, we want neither grey headed matrons, nor grey

bearded old men to advise _us_. What they call _their experience_! (of

which they are so fond of boasting,) if listened to at all, serves

only to cramp and to trammel _our youthful inventions_. Therefore, to

all such we say:--Ladies and Gentlemen, both hands and tongues off, if

you please; _laissez nous faire_--let us alone."

The bare expectation of any such flouting, you will probably say,

should keep me silent, if I was a man of only a moderate degree of

prudence. But like many other obstinate people, my inclination to

persist seems to augment inversely to my chances of success. Maugre

then the danger and forlornness of my undertaking, I must go on. But

before I come to the main purpose of the present letter, pray have

patience with me, while I offer a few more remarks in anticipation of

another {548} still more serious charge, which I expect will be made

against me. I must make them too, with the perfect recollection of the

maxim, that "he who begins to plead before he is accused, knows

himself to be guilty."--True, however, as this may be in general, _my

case_, I hope, will be excepted, after you hear me. The charge to

which I allude is,--the odious one of being _a Cynic_. With _you_,

sir, I am very sure my bare denial would suffice; but you have many

readers who know nothing of me. In deference to _them_ therefore, I

feel bound to offer some stronger proof of my innocence; if that which

is of a negative character (and it is all I can adduce,) will be

accepted. Be it known then, to all whom it may concern, that I, Oliver

Oldschool, have always denied, and do hereby deny, the truth of the

most important, prominent and offensive of all the cynical dogmas,

which is,--that "_men are nothing but monkeys without tails!_" and

furthermore, that I hold myself bound and always ready to make battle

in this behalf, "_pugnis et calcibus, unguibus et rostro_:" and all

this too, notwithstanding the following most startling and humiliating

resemblances which have been traced by the true Cynics between the two

species. For instance--"Man" (say they) "is a biped"--so is a monkey;

at least so nearly one, that his anterior legs serve him admirably

well for arms, and accordingly it is still a mooted point, a much

vexed question among naturalists which to call them, _arms_ or _legs_.

Man generally walks erect, although sometimes, when _top-heavy_, he

moves quadruped fashion. The monkey, at least the kind called the

ourang outang only reverses the practice, by going more frequently on

his two certain and his two quasi legs, than on the two first alone.

Man has a facial angle by which those curious, prying fellows, called

craniologists, measure the degree of his intelligence and infer the

nature of his dispositions. Monkeys also have this angle, often so

nearly the same, (mathematically speaking,) with that which we discern

in many of our race, that few things are more common than to hear the

exclamation "such a one has a monkey face." Lastly, man is most

decidedly and conspicuously _an imitative animal_, so is a monkey, and

in a degree so very striking, that there is scarcely an outward

movement, action, or gesture of ours which his mimetic talents do not

enable him to take off to the life. This is especially true of all

those peculiar airs indicative of self-complacency and vanity which

mark these two races of animals in contradistinction to all others,[1]

and may be termed an idiosyncracy of intellect. The coxcomb's

ineffable smile of fascination; the witling's pert and sudden smirk of

self-conceit; the vain pedant's awkward cachination at his own

ill-timed, out-of-place strokes of classic humor; the despicable

miser's self-gratulating chuckle at inordinate gain; the _great man's_

gracious grin to his supposed inferiors, and the _little man's_

side-shaking, obstreperous laugh at the abortive joke of some superior

from whom he is courting favors; all these and more, your true monkey

can enact with such perfect verisimilitude, that if properly dressed

for the occasion, he might pass off for the real man in each case,

instead of his counterfeit, without the least danger of detection.

_His mimickry_, in addition to its fidelity, has this other remarkable

circumstance about it, that in applying it, he seems to have no

particular choice of objects, but imitates all external actions alike,

whether they be praiseworthy or the reverse. Man, on the contrary, in

the exercise of _his_ imitative propensities, shows too often a

stronger inclination for the bad than the good--for the faulty than

the commendable--for the fantastical and the ridiculous rather than

the becoming. In nothing is this more remarkable, than in the greedy,

ever restless perseverance with which he seeks foreign fashions and

customs, and the reckless pertinacity, under all possible

discouragements, with which he strives to imitate and adopt them. Of

this assertion I have already endeavored to furnish you with some

proofs, which to _me at least_ appeared irrefutable. But I will now

attempt to supply a few more. These also shall consist of remarks on

certain foreign fashions, which may be said to be still under the

process of naturalization, having proved so entirely uncongenial to

our principles, habits and opinions, as not yet to be firmly

established. They may, therefore, be considered as still within the

reach of that exterminating power--public opinion.

[Footnote 1: Goldsmith is the only natural historian, I believe, who

has urged the claim of the goose to a participation in this enviable

human quality, vanity. In his "Animated Nature" he has the following

remark in his natural history of the goose, of which I can give only

the substance, not having the volume before me. Speaking of the action

commonly called "the strutting of the gander," he says: that in _this

situation_, there is probably no animal on the face of the earth more

important in the eyes of another, than a gander in the eyes of a

goose!! Verily, I think, (with due submission) he is mistaken; for a

fully whiskered, well mustached beau, with all his bristly honors

thick upon him, is to a belle, as far above the gander in the

estimation of a goose, as imagination can possibly conceive.]

At the head of these fashions or customs, pre-eminent above the rest,

we find the Conversation Party, the _Soiree_, and the Squeeze. The

first is admitted to be an emigrè from Italy, although the term is

here anglicised; the second is from France, and the third from ----

nobody knows where, unless from our mother country Great Britain; for

Johnson gives both a Saxon and a Welsh etymology to it, both meaning

_to press or crush between two bodies_; which meaning their American

derivative (much to its honor,) has most faithfully preserved.

The conversation party would naturally be deemed by one not in the

secret, a party particularly formed for the pleasures of conversation;

for imparting and receiving agreeable thoughts; for blending amusement

with oral instruction; in a word, for such a voluntary and talented

reciprocation of ideas as would improve the taste, gratify the

feelings, and heighten the mental enjoyment of all the parties

concerned. _Is it this or any thing that bears the slightest

resemblance to it?_ I ask an answer from any individual who has ever

been to one of them, no matter with how much care it might have been

selected. To these parties, such as they really are, I have no

intention here to object. All I wish or aim at now, is, to have them

called by their right names, as every thing ought to be, if we really

desire to confine language to its proper use, which is, to make

ourselves, at all times, clearly understood. But in styling these

things _Conversation Parties_, before persons who had never been at

them, we should practice the grossest deception. For instead of such

an assemblage as the current meaning of the term would lead them to

expect, and might induce them to seek, they would soon find themselves

surrounded by a Babel-like {549} confusion of tongues, where all sorts

of odds and ends of unconnected exclamations and eliptical sentences

are uttered simultaneously, and in the highest vocal key, by every

member of the company--_the mules only_ excepted. Why _they_ should

ever frequent such uncongenial spots, is more, I believe, than any one

can tell. But certain it is that some of them will always be found

there, although as much out of place as the Alumni of the Deaf and

Dumb Asylums would be in Congress Hall, attempting to take a debating

part in that _other_ Tower of Babel, as John Randolph, with his

customary felicity of conception, used to call it.

Of the _Soirée_, I may truly assert that it is an exotic, still so

uncongenial, so illy suited to our people, and even to their organs of

speech, that not one in a thousand has learned so much as to pronounce

its name correctly. Some, even of those who are so far Frenchified as

to have been to France, and consequently to interlard their mother

tongue with unintelligible French phrases, by way of authenticating

the extent of their travels, call it "_Swar-ree_;" as if it were a

place where all the attendants were to have oaths of some sort or

other administered to them, so as to entitle them to be designated

_Sware-rees_. Others again, in a more sportsmanlike manner, pronounce

it _So-ree_, which (as Mr. Jefferson has told us,) is the true Indian

appellative for the Rallus, or water-rail. Such orthoepists, we may

suppose, if asked where they had been, on returning from a party of

the kind, might well answer, in the Virginia sportsman's dialect, "we

have been _so-russ-in_;" for this twistification of the term from its

original meaning would be nothing comparable to many that have been

made by etymologists of the highest reputation. For instance, all

Virginia sportsmen, living near fresh water marshes, know well, that

at _so-russ-in parties_, (as they universally call them,) the great

object is _to kill and eat fat birds_. But a principal object of a

_soirée_ party being _to catch and use_ what may well be figuratively

called _fat birds_, the substitution of the term "_so-russ-in party_"

for a "_soirée party_" is amply justified upon all etymological

principles. I therefore take the liberty of strongly recommending it,

unless our _soirée_-giving gentry would suspend their operations long

enough, at least to learn from some native French teacher how to

invite a French gentleman to their parties, in language that he

himself would understand; since to ask him to a swàr-ree or sò-rée

would be quite unintelligible.

To gratify the curious I have consulted a friend as to the literal

meaning of the French word "_soirée_," (being no French scholar

myself) and find that the term, like thousands of others in all

languages, has been pressed from its original signification into its

present service, by a sort of metonymy, as the rhetoricians call it;

and instead of being applied to designate that portion of the

twenty-four hours which we call _evening_, is now used to express the

receiving of short evening visits on any named day, by one's friends

and acquaintance. This, according to one of Leontine's letters,

published in your February number, seems to be the French fashion. But

we Southerners of these United States, either from ignorance or

design, have so innovated upon the foreign practice, that it would

puzzle a much more experienced man than myself in such matters, to

explain what is to be understood, in Virginia parlance, by _swar-ree_

or _so-ree_, or whatever other barbarous pronunciation they choose to

give the French word. I can only say, that I myself have seen a few

thus variously called, each of which proved a kind of olla podrida or

dish of all sorts; fish, flesh and fowl in _one_ place; a

non-descript, desultory kind of dancing in _another_; all

talking-and-no-listening politicians battling in a _third_; and card

playing, drinking and uproarious mirth in a _fourth part_ of the

general assemblage, wherein were gathered together, as many as could

be, of all sizes and sorts of persons, "ring-streaked, speckled and

spotted" to the full, as much as Laban's flocks themselves. Take

notice, good Mr. Editor, that I am not now daring to _censure_, but

only to _describe_, as well as I can, what my own eyes have beheld. I

am not now "telling tales out of school;" for my school going days

furnished me with no such secrets, however "the march of mind" may

have since disclosed them to other tyroes in the pursuit of education.

The _Squeeze_ I shall endeavor more particularly to describe; since my

reminiscences, although "few and far between," are still so vivid,

that I can venture to delineate them without fear of their suffering,

at least from forgetfulness. It is true that I cannot say, as Æneas

did to queen Dido, of _his_ sufferings at and after the siege of

Troy--"quorum pars _magna_ fui;" as one or two experiments quite

sufficed for me; but I can truly apply the same line to myself, could

I only substitute the word _patiens_ for "_magna_," without too much

offence against the measure of the poetry, and I could then give in my

experience, as the Trojan hero did, in perfect sincerity and good

faith.

Know then, sir, that in the year and month ----, and on a certain

night, I was seduced by curiosity--that fell destroyer of our race--to

go, for the first time, to a party called a Squeeze, in the city of

Washington, denominated by some "the Grand City of O," after the

capital in Cunningham's amusing fiction of "_The World without

Souls_." Being accompanied by one of the initiated, my debut was

readily made as others made theirs. Without material obstruction we

were ushered through the passage by the escorting valet; but when we

reached the door of the principal pressing and crushing room, _hic

labor, hoc opus est!_ here commenced that series of efforts and

struggles which was not soon to end, as I afterwards found, to the no

small detriment of various parts of my body and limbs. Through this

door also, my entrance was at last effected; for what obstacle may not

perseverance overcome? A strong effort of my own in the van, and the

unsolicited aid in the rear of those who, like myself, wished to see

all that was to be seen, very soon protruded me "_in medias res_,"

which I beg leave to render in idiomatic English--"up to the hub" in

the business. Not many minutes however elapsed, before the pressing

and crushing became so intense as to excite an earnest desire for a

change both of place and posture. Accordingly I bent my course towards

another room, having understood there were several prepared for _the

accommodation!_ (strange misnomer, thought I,) of the company. This

joint removal of body and limbs, which I had a particular fancy should

not be disunited, having kept company with each other from my birth, I

found toilsome and oppressive in no ordinary degree. For the instant I

began to move I was met by a strong counter-current composed of a

compact mass of my co-squeezers and {550} squeezees--many of whom were

of such "breadth and heft" as would verily have done great honor to a

Massachusett's cattle show of the highest grade, had the subjects only

been quadrupeds instead of bipeds, and in equal condition for market.

A forcible entry having been made into another room, I found myself

standing within a few inches of a strange but very lovely young lady.

She also was standing, apparently to execute _her_ part of a

cotillion, within a circle which the united pushing and shoving of the

eight operatives required for the dance, had not been vigorous enough

to enlarge beyond a diameter of some six or seven feet. Being

compelled to stand immediately behind her, my eyes naturally fell upon

her shoulders, which the dominant fashion then required to be

literally half naked. With equal pain and wonderment I observed, that

by some invisible machinery, the circulation of the blood was so

checked on the visible side of the shoulder strap, as to give a livid

appearance to the contiguous skin; while the opposite edges of the

_scapulæ_ (I would not for the world, in such a case, say

_shoulder-blades_,) were forced as near touching as they could be

without dislocation. _This_, thought I to myself, must surely be a

fashion invented by some bright etherial genius, regardless of bodily

suffering, for a squeeze; since its adaptation to _that_ object could

not admit of a doubt--an adaptation, by the way, more complete, beyond

comparison, than the present much admired, although evidently

incompatible fashion of the bishop sleeves.[2] True, there seemed to

be no small loss in shoulder comfort; but the manifest gain in bodily

compression, that grand desideratum in a squeeze, to which all else

must be sacrificed, appeared far to overbalance it, since according to

the best off-hand calculation I could make, ten bodies with their

appendant limbs thus prepared, could readily be wedged into a space

which before would suffice only for nine, dressed after any previous

fashion. But what is there too arduous, too great, for the matchless

genius of our fair countrywomen, when stimulated by an adequate cause,

and exercised upon a suitable subject!!

[Footnote 2: Most, if not all of our fair countrywomen, have vainly

supposed _this_ to be quite a modern fashion; but that it is nothing

more than an old one revived, and as ancient as the days of the

Prophet Ezekiel, when it was all the rage, is indisputably proved by

the 18th verse of his 13th chapter. There, the good old man, in all

the bitterness of his heart, exclaims--"Wo! to _the women that sew

pillows to all arm holes_, and make kerchiefs upon the head of every

structure, to hunt souls!!"]

Although I felt much for the poor girls thus trussed, thus

cross-hobbled, I resolved to wait a few moments to witness the "_modus

operandi_" of this exhilarating dance, which, judging by all the

methods that I had ever seen, required for its performance a circle at

least three times as large as the one then before me. I knew too,

enough of the prevalent fashion of dancing cotillions to be aware,

that its most stylish mode then consisted in a kind of alert vigorous

movement, which was most truly but somewhat coarsely called, "kicking

out." This, it was manifest, could not _there_ be executed according

to the law "in that case made and provided," without imminent danger

to the anterior tibiæ of the legs--in vulgar parlance, the

"shin-bones" of the parties concerned. It was therefore with much

apprehension of the danger, at least to "the woman kind," that I

awaited the incipient gesticulations of this cotillion party. My fears

were soon relieved, by perceiving that the _operatives_ had

substituted, with admirable ingenuity, a kind of lackadaisical

slipping, sliding, flat-footed motion, which completely guarded them

from the danger I had most ignorantly and unnecessarily anticipated.

To be sure it no more resembled the lively animating exercise, called

_dancing_ in my boyish days, than the dreamy motions of the

somnambulist do the elastic springs of the wide awake tight rope

dancer. But it possessed the rare merit of perfectly adapted means to

ends, and I could ask no more; for Harlequin himself could hardly have

done better under similar duresse. By the way, Mr. Editor, I have been

told that this somnambulizing motion has now become the very "tip-top"

of the mode in all kinds of dancing,--the waltz and the

horse-galloping dances only excepted. In this change the arbiters and

reformers of our fashions seem to have displayed much more wisdom than

we usually find exerted in matters of the kind, since it is the all

levelling political principle carried out into our social amusements;

for it places the active and the clumsy on a footing (if you will

pardon a pun,) of perfect equality, the smooth and even tenor of which

is never disturbed; unless when some credulous sexagenarian is

over-persuaded to perpetrate the folly of turning out to dance among a

party of girls and boys. _They_ make a laughing stock of him, while

_he_, in the sincerity of his heart, and with all the fast perishing

vigor of his limbs, _caricatures_ (for he can do nothing more,) the

athletic cuts and shuffles of the by-gone century, to which nothing

could possibly do anything like justice but an uncommon degree both of

youthful vigor and activity. That you, sir, who are quite too young to

have any personal knowledge of these important matters, may be sure

that I do not exaggerate in making this last assertion, it will

suffice to inform you, that the most celebrated steps of that

time,--steps, which if perfectly executed, always stampt the

performers as first rate dancers--were styled, in the metaphorical

language of those merry making days, "forked lightning" and "chicken

flutter" for the gentlemen, and "heel and toe" and "cross-shuffle" for

the ladies. The first I confess, was rather "a far-fetched metaphor,"

to say the least of it; but the other three appellations were as

perfectly appropriate as could well be conceived. It might also be

truly affirmed of all, that there was nothing in any of them, in the

slightest degree indecorous, as in the waltz and gallopade; for it

seemed not then to have been imagined that _dancing_ could be

perverted to any such purpose as the excitation of highly culpable

sentiments.

If you will pardon this digression, sir, in consideration that old men

will be garrulous and prosing, I will now squeeze you back from the

dancing-room to the one first entered, and with somewhat less

difficulty, I hope, than I myself encountered.

There I was immediately attracted by a conspicuous gathering of

_heads_; of bodies I could see none, except those in juxtaposition. It

was drawn together, as I conjectured, by something rather beyond the

common spectacles of the night. Being determined to have my share of

the sight, I forced my way near enough to behold, in the midst of a

circle not much larger than a hogshead hoop, a tall young lady,

elegantly dressed, (that is as far as perfect conformity to the

fashion could {551} make her so) and quite a good figure, but too much

"drawn" (as the racers say) in the waist. And what, think you, was her

employment? Why--attitudinizing and thumping away most theatrically

upon a tambourine! This was the finishing stroke--the finale of my

squeeze-going days, or rather _nights_; and I hastened to squeeze

myself _out_, with much more alacrity than I had squeezed myself

_in_--marvelling all the way as I rode home with my equally surfeited

companion, at the frequency with which we call actual and severe

toils, _pleasures_; and at the innumerable contrivances to which the

devotees of the latter resort intentionally, as we must presume, to

gain, but in reality to mar, their object. Of these contrivances I had

just swallowed my first and last dose, as I then designed it to be, of

the one called _a Squeeze_; a contrivance which seemed to me

altogether matchless in its unsuitability of means to ends; that is,

if it was really designed for _a party of pleasure!_ for after one or

two hours most diligent search, I had utterly failed in finding a

single spot, where even one individual could either _sit_, _stand_ or

_walk_, with the slightest degree of convenience or comfort!!

To give you a still better idea of the supreme folly justly

attributable to such plain country folks as myself, for venturing into

places so entirely unsuitable to us, I will conclude this long epistle

by relating a real incident once told to me by a gentleman who had it

from the sufferer himself.

Some years ago a kind of "Hickory Quaker," (as he called himself,) but

whose real name it is needless to mention, found his way, "par

hazard," from one of the middle States to Congress. Being thus ranked

among the honorables of the land, it was not long before he received

an invitation to a _Squeeze_. His intense curiosity to see something

of which he could not, from the name, form the slightest conception,

got the better of his prudence, and he very rashly determined to go;

although, as he afterwards confessed, in relating his mishaps, not

without many misgivings which he with difficulty suppressed. On

consulting one or two of his friends, who were already initiated into

all the mysteries of squeezes, as to the proper time to go, the only

information given was, "_be sure not to be the first of the company_."

This injunction relieved him of much of his apprehension, being very

confident of his power to fulfil it. His confidence however, proved

too overweening, for having waited and waited until his usual bed hour

at home, the sudden fear seized him of erring in the contrary extreme,

and finding the party broken up. Under this impression he hurried off,

in his best Quaker dress, as fast as his _legs_ could carry him, for

taking _a hack_ was out of the question. Having soon arrived, he

knocked loudly at the door with his knuckles, not being yet cognizant

of the bell-bolt contrivance,--demanding, at the same time, in his

customary way, "who keeps the house?" The opening of the door

immediately followed, and he was about to enter; but the finely

dressed servant whom he mistook for the master of the house,

manifesting, not only much surprise, but some strong symptoms of

resistance, friend Ephraim (as I beg leave to call him,) deemed it

best to say--"I have some particular business with the lady, who sent

for me herself." This at once proved an "_open sesamè_," and in he

marched, putting as bold a face on the matter as he could, and

anxiously hoping to find, in a few minutes, some friends to keep him

in countenance. But alas! it is not in man that liveth, to form hopes

which shall not be disappointed; for upon being ushered into the

lady's presence, he found her, to his utter astonishment, entirely

alone, and looking at him as a perfect stranger; and well she might,

having never cast eyes on him before. This most unexpected occurrence,

this jumping, as it were, out of the frying-pan into the fire, so

utterly confounded him, that he was very near taking to his heels with

all possible speed, and escaping by the way he came, if he could find

no shorter exit. Luckily however, he bethought him of producing his

credentials for admission, which he had most fortunately slipped into

his pocket, being yet ignorant of the fashion of leaving it in his

room, as if through carelesness, but in reality to display the extent

of his honors, so far as these depend upon the number of one's

visiting acquaintance. The exhibition of his ticket instantly put

matters to rights; the lady's countenance brightened up with smiles

ineffable; he was overwhelmed with apologies for not knowing him,

although greatly did he marvel how she should; and so much pleasure

and happiness was expressed at his having honored her party by his

presence, that he began to ask himself, with infinite

self-complacency, whether there might not _really be_, as he had heard

when a boy, such a thing as "_love at first sight_." The repetition

however, of nearly the identical expressions to every gentleman who

afterwards entered, brought to his mind the mortifying conviction,

either that the boyish tale was false, or that his hostess must be in

love with every gentleman of the company, which he at once pronounced

impossible.

Until more company arrived, our quaker friend found himself in a sad

predicament; for having no plausible excuse for escape, and deeming

himself bound, at least to try to entertain the lady with some kind of

conversation, he sat many minutes pondering over the few topics on

which he thought himself able to converse, but finding none that

exactly pleased him, he at length resolved to hazard something about

cabbages, and peas, and poultry; shrewdly imagining that such matters

would be more amusing, as well as instructive to her, than any

contained in his "knowledge box." Great was his pleasure and

wonderment to find her perfectly at home as to all these mysteries; so

much so, indeed, that he could hardly suppress the exclamation, "Oh!

that my old woman knew half as much." All things, however, must have

an end, although friend Ephraim began to fear that the tête à tête

between the lady and himself never would; and when their chat was fast

dying away, like the flickering blaze in the nearly empty socket of a

candlestick, suddenly the doors were thrown open, and in rushed

pellmell, such a mixed multitude, as struck him with speechless

astonishment. Very soon (as he himself described the scene,) he had to

abandon his seat; and according to his notions of politeness, was

every moment making room, first for one stranger and then for another,

without having time so much as casually to shake the hand of an

acquaintance, before they were thrust apart. Thus elbowed, and shoved,

and bumped about on every side, and not knowing how to keep out of

every body's way, which seemed a physical impossibility, he found

himself, at last, most unexpectedly squeezed into the midst of a party

altogether of ladies, whose united voices raised such an {552}

unintelligible din, as brought to his recollection what he had read in

his Bible, about the confusion of tongues at the tower of Babel.

Resolutely bent, however, upon "seeing the show out," he determined to

persevere. But, at the same time, having the accommodation of others

much at heart, he resolved to try a yet unessayed position, by way of

making himself as small as possible. This was to thrust his hands

behind him, the first moment space enough was given for the purpose;

at the same time straightening his arms as much as practicable, and

grasping one wrist with the other hand, to secure their union. He had

but a few seconds for self-congratulation upon so ingenious a device,

before some sudden, undesigned impetus in front, forced him back, so

that his hand was pressed against something hard. Of this he

involuntarily took hold, but without turning his head; that indeed

being impracticable. He mistook this hard article (as he afterwards

found to his cost,) for the end of a narrow shingle, although for the

life of him he could not imagine why, or how it got there, as he had

seen nothing like building going on about the premises. Scarcely,

however, had he taken hold of it, before it was forcibly jerked from

his grasp, and his hands were once more disengaged. His conjectures as

to what it could possibly be, were still puzzling his brain, when a

fierce Pendragon sort of a fellow, whiskered and mustached to the very

tip of his nose, forced his way to him through the dense mass by which

he was surrounded, and in a very authoritative, menacing tone, told

him that Mrs. ---- desired to see him. He obeyed the mandate as

speedily as possible, but in mortal dread and astonishment as to the

cause of it. The moment he reached his hostess, she demanded, with a

look of indescribable indignation, "how he dared to insult a lady in

her house?" Thunderstruck, as it were, at the accusation, for a few

moments he was deprived of speech. But at length recovering the use of

his tongue, he averred and protested, and affirmed, that he was

utterly unconscious of having committed any such outrage; an outrage

which he was altogether incapable of perpetrating. This so far

appeased the lady's wrath, as to produce an awkward and embarrassing

explanation on both sides, by which it was discovered, that the

supposed shingle end had been, in reality, the projecting end of a

lady's corset bone, unluckily squeezed out of place, in the general

pressing and crushing of the crowd. The conference ended in the lady's

being satisfied, and in our worthy quaker resolving from the very

bottom of his heart, never again to trust himself in any place under

the sun, be the temptation what it might, wherein he could not find a

safe place, even for his hands!

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SANFORDS.

"Some wild desire, some sad mistake has cast

Severe remorse and sorrow for the past;

Some former fault shall present solace curb,

Or fair occasion lost, his peace disturb;

Some fatal chance has ruined every scheme,

And proved his brightest prospect all a dream."

About the year 18--, there lived in a populous neighborhood, in the

state of Virginia, a lady and gentleman named Sanford. They possessed

considerable wealth, which was to be inherited by their only son, whom

they called Hugh. The life of this worthy couple, was as quiet and

easy as an unruffled stream, save when some slight differences of

opinion would occasionally arise, respecting the management of Hugh.

But one point on which they always agreed, was, that he should never

be thwarted in any wish of his heart.

At the time our story commences, Hugh Sanford was twenty, and had just

left college. Whether he ever distinguished himself there, I have not

been able to ascertain. However, I know with certainty, that he was by

nature gifted with good sense, and he had many fine qualities of the

heart. I know not whether the reader will think so, from the sketch I

am about to write, but he must bear in mind, that Hugh's natural

disposition was so warped by continual indulgence, that not until the

fever of youth had subsided, was it truly developed.

A large party had been invited to spend several days at Mr. Sanford's,

and his wife had promised them a little dance. We shall pass over the

preparations which were made for the party, and which, in the country,

always produce so much bustle and excitement; we will even say nothing

of the more important business, (to the girls at least) of the

_toilette_; but shall follow them all to the drawing room, which was

brilliantly lighted.

Among the girls, Mary Linden, was the most commanding; her splendid

dress and jewelry, gave her quite a _magnificent_ air. She was the

daughter of a _rich_ widower. Ellen Lorval (the only child of a _poor_

lawyer,) was also much admired. Her light muslin dress and simple

wreath of wild flowers were peculiarly becoming.

"My dear Hugh," said Mrs. Sanford, "I wish to speak with you a moment

before the dancing commences. Does not Mary look beautiful? Do go and

engage her as your partner immediately."

"Not so fast mother," said he smiling.

"My son," said she, "I love Mary as my daughter: could I but think

that she would be one to me." She looked at him intently, but he

appeared not to understand her meaning, and turning the conversation,

he went to join a group of young men.

The scene changes. The enlivening sound of the violin is heard; the

couples are beginning to take their places on the floor, when Hugh, to

the dismay of his parents, is seen leading out Ellen Lorval. Mary

Linden is surrounded by beaux, and it seems has capriciously given her

fair hand to the least deserving of them, a would-be-wit, whose whole

conversation consists of long words and jests, which have been in

print for ages. The party went off well, and all seemed to enjoy

themselves, except some few unfortunate _wall-flowers_, for whom,

however, Mrs. Sanford procured partners towards the close of the

evening.

Hugh would probably never again have thought of his attentions to

Ellen, had not his mother kept {553} him _in custody_ the next

morning, while she spoke _her_ mind on the subject. She represented to

him "the folly of falling in love with her, when Mary Linden was in

the house;" and she even went so far as to say that "there would be a

_great impropriety_ in his falling in love with Ellen."

Hugh was greatly astonished at hearing all this, for the idea of

falling in love had never entered his imagination. He was sorry to see

his mother pained, but since she had put such notions into his head,

he could not but see, that if he could be so fortunate as to fall in

love, and meet with opposition, it would give a peculiar zest to the

monotony of his country life. So he stalked off to the drawing room,

and _began_ to think Ellen very interesting. The few succeeding days

were passed as they usually are by a large party in the country. They

read, talked, rode and played at battledoor; but at length the guests

departed, and Mr. and Mrs. Sanford returned to the enjoyment of their

usual tranquillity; but Hugh did not feel quite at his ease, as he was

conscious that he had pained his parents, not so much by his

attentions to Ellen, as by failing to fall in love with Mary Linden.

Weeks passed on;--Hugh continued to meet Ellen at all the dinners and

parties in the neighborhood, and to pay her attention. Mr. and Mrs.

Sanford had seen all their hopes respecting Mary Linden laid low, and

they had fretted themselves into ill humor about Ellen: a calm was now

ensuing, they began to look on the bright side of things, and even to

fancy that Ellen was to be their future daughter.

"My son," said Mr. Sanford, "I wish you to consult your own happiness

in every thing. You love Ellen; you have now the consent of your

parents to address her."

"Really father, I----." He stammered out something that was

unintelligible.

"Say no more, I see you are embarrassed."

"Hear me father----."

"Not a word more at present; good bye."

There is an old saying, that "competition is the life of trade," and I

think it is no less true, that "opposition is the life of love," or of

something that is frequently mistaken for it by _greenhorns_, and very

young ladies just from school. Now that all opposition was at an end,

Hugh was somewhat surprised to find himself entirely OUT of love with

Ellen; and indeed, he shrewdly suspected he had never been IN love

with her. The gentle girl had seemed pleased with the attentions of

the handsome Hugh Sanford, though she acted with the most perfect

delicacy, nor have I ever found out whether she imagined him to be

serious. I am sorry to say, that the utmost partiality cannot throw a

veil over the conduct of Hugh in this instance; and many will say that

he does not deserve the title of a _hero_. "Pshaw!" says a little

girl, "I thought all heroes were perfect!" And so they are, in English

novels, but not in Old Virginia!

Mrs. Sanford had a widowed sister living in the southern part of the

state. Her name was Harrington, and she was the mother of two

daughters, who were dashing belles and beauties. Thither Hugh now

went, to pay a visit. On a bright evening, he came in sight of his

aunt's dwelling. It was situated on a smooth green hill, which

gradually sloped to the river ----, which was not very wide here. A

tiny canoe was presently visible in the middle of the stream, and much

to his surprise he perceived in it a single female figure. "Can that

be one of my cousins?" said he; "what mad freak could induce her to go

alone?" But, when he arrived at the house, he found both of his

cousins and his aunt sitting together. They received him cordially,

and while he was answering their inquiries, a light step was heard in

the passage, and an eager voice exclaimed: "Oh, Mrs. Harrington, my

pigeon flew away from me to the other bank, and I was so much afraid

of losing it, that I went over for it by myself." The speaker entered

the room, holding the bird triumphantly in her hand; but perceiving a

stranger, she was retreating, when Mrs. Harrington recalled her, and

she was introduced to Hugh by the appellation of Amy Larone. She was

bright as a sunbeam, and beautiful as the roses of spring. Her hazel

eyes were large; a delicate carnation bloomed on her cheek, and her

brown hair was parted over her smooth brow, and gracefully twisted at

the back of her head. She was below the middle size, and the plainest

suit of mourning was neatly fitted on her slender shape. Hugh's

interest was strongly excited by the air of mystery with which he

fancied she was surrounded, and he seized the first opportunity to

inquire who she was. Her simple story was soon told. She was nearly

sixteen, and was the orphan child of poor and obscure, though honest

parents. Her mother died when she was four years old, and she was left

to the care of her father, an illiterate, although well-meaning man,

who had no idea that education was at all necessary: if he could see

his daughter neatly dressed, and hear the neighbors say how beautiful

she was, he cared for nothing more. Her beauty and modesty were talked

of by rich and poor. Her father had not been dead more than seven or

eight months; and Mrs. Harrington pitying her forlorn condition, had

taken her to her house. Maria and Theresa Harrington were kind to her,

and were anxious to repair somewhat the total neglect of the education

of the warm hearted Amy. She was grateful, but as her taste for study

had not been formed in childhood, it was with reluctance that she now

attempted the _drudgery_ of learning, and, so far as concerned

herself, she wished that the makers of books had never existed.

She seemed, however, to possess an instinctive {554} knowledge of what

was right and proper to be said or done, even on occasions that were

perfectly novel to her; and when a subject was started of which she

was ignorant, she acted _wisely_, and said _nothing_; or if in the

course of conversation a few errors were committed by her, her

transcendent beauty was sufficient to atone for all. True, her beauty

was not of the spiritual kind, "the rapt soul _beaming_ in the eyes;"

but it was just such as is always admired by enthusiastic young men.

Company came in, and Hugh obtaining a seat near Amy, entered into

conversation with her, in which to do her justice, she supported her

part quite well. He rallied her upon her excursion after her truant

bird. She replied--"It was the last thing my father ever gave me, and

I love it for his sake."

Several weeks had been passed by Hugh at his aunt's, and he had become

deeply interested in the orphan. Amy appeared dejected, and very

rarely joined the family party in the sitting room. This conduct only

strengthened Hugh's interest. He was now really in love--"fairly

caught," as the young ladies express it. Walking out one evening by

himself, he encountered Amy unexpectedly, and a gleam of joy lighted

up his handsome features.

"Miss Larone," said he, "why have you deserted us; the time has been

too, too long since we met."

"Three days, sir," said Amy, slightly smiling.

"I can hardly believe it possible," said he, "for it seems almost as

many months to me."

Amy assumed a look of coldness, and said she did not understand him;

but her countenance betrayed that she did.

They walked on in silence to the bank of the river, and Hugh looking

on the beautiful stream and its romantic banks, said, "Could I but

think that you would walk here after I am gone, and think of me--Amy,

I will confess that from the first moment I saw you, I felt the

strongest interest in you. Nay more, that I do now love you most

ardently. Will you give me your heart?" She remained silent and

agitated, and at length tears came to her relief. "Oh, why do you

weep? Say to me Amy, that I may at least hope you love me!" She raised

her mild tearful eyes, and that glance betrayed that her heart was

his.--"Now, heaven bless you Amy, let us record our vows, and you will

be my bride ere long." "Mr. Sanford," she said, "'tis true that I love

you, but yet I can never be yours. Your parents would never receive me

as their daughter." "Hush Amy," said he, "my parents love me too well

to withhold their consent." Struggling with her emotion, she said,

"There are other weighty reasons why I cannot be your wife. No, no, it

cannot be." "Amy, you distract me; whatever those reasons are, they

_shall_ be overcome." She shook her head, and darted off from him ere

he was aware of her determination. Hugh was bewildered; but he

resolved to seek another interview with Amy. The next day he entreated

her as a last favor, to walk with him. So _reasonable_ a request could

not be refused. He told her that unless she changed her determination,

on the morrow he would depart, whither he neither knew or cared. Her

_compassion_ was so much excited, that before their return to the

house, she had permitted him to hope. He told her he would set off

directly for his home, and that he would return in a few

weeks,--adding that he would write to her immediately. It was not

until after much entreaty, that she consented to receive his letters;

but when he requested her to _answer_ them, her agitation knew no

bounds. Poor Amy!

The next day he took leave of all; and ere long, a letter fraught with

expressions of the most tender regard, was handed to Amy. _She did not

answer it._ Another soon followed, gently chiding her for her silence.

After this, _all were answered_. Mrs. Harrington and Maria _were in

arms about the match_. His parents yielded a reluctant consent; and at

the appointed time they were married. Hugh wrote to his mother to

apprize her of it, and to appoint a time for their arrival at the home

of his childhood--he now thought himself perfectly happy. The

_honey-moon_ was nearly past, when, one day as he was gazing with

rapture on the loveliness of his young bride, Mrs. Harrington entered,

saying, "Here is a letter directed to 'Mrs. Hugh Sanford,' from my

sister, I think." She handed Amy the letter, with a look of peculiar

significance. Amy broke the seal mechanically, blushed deeply, and

bent her eyes on the ground.--"Amy," said Hugh, "why do you not read

my mother's letter?" She sank down, and could only say, "Forgive

me--oh, forgive me!" "For what, dearest? You that never in thought or

word offended. Look up, Amy," said he, smiling, "you have no need of

forgiveness." "Oh, you do not know; I--" She could scarce articulate;

but at length came the terrible confession, that she could scarcely

read, and _could not write!_

We have mentioned the total neglect of her education, and the

"_weighty_ reasons" which she told Hugh would prevent her from

marrying him. All is now explained. But how, you may ask, did she

manage to answer his letters, when she was unable to write? She made

Theresa Harrington her confidant; and _she_, without thinking of the

consequences, answered them in Amy's name. The deception was cruel;

but Amy's conduct is not entirely without some palliation. Her love of

Hugh, and the shame of her ignorance, combated fiercely in her bosom;

and _she did refuse him--partly_.

Hugh had first been won by her beauty and her destitute condition; her

refusal of his offered hand {555} had only added fuel to the flame.

Absence, "making the heart grow fonder," and the letters he received,

all conspired to blind him. Sincerely was he to be pitied, for he

possessed many fine qualities, and was nobly disinterested. The veil

was now removed from his eyes, and the dream of love was fast

deserting him, like shadows of the morning, when the bright sunlight

rises o'er the hills. They went to his parents. We shall pass over the

various mortifications which Hugh had to endure. Amy idolized her

husband, and he was too kind-hearted to be proof against her fondness.

He exerted himself day after day to instruct her, but I do not believe

she went much beyond learning to read and write legibly. His parents

lived only a few years after these events, and his beautiful wife was

attacked about four years after they were married with a slight cough,

which was soon followed by that bright flush, which is too frequently

the harbinger of death. A southern climate, and every possible means

were resorted to, for her restoration to health, but in vain! Her last

prayers were offered up for her husband, and a daughter then two years

old. Hugh never married again. He continued to live at the family

mansion, occupied almost entirely with the education of Eva. When she

was ten years of age, she was sent to New York to school. Her life has

been attended with circumstances which are not without romance. Should

any curiosity be felt on the subject, I may at a future time give a

sketch of the life of Eva Sanford.

Years have passed since these events transpired, and the once young

and handsome Hugh Sanford is now an old man. His appearance is very

much changed, and his faults and foibles have been lost in his

progress through life, or have become softened by the hand of time.

Certain it is, he is now a very estimable man, and is looked up to

with reverence both in public and private life.

A.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SCENE FROM "ARNOLD AND ANDRE,"

An unpublished Drama, by the author of "Herbert Barclay," and

translator of Schiller's "Don Carlos."